


Rescue

by Ginipig



Series: Cullistair One-Shots [21]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Happy Ending, Kidnapping, King Alistair (Dragon Age), M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Starvation, beatings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24602248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginipig/pseuds/Ginipig
Summary: King Alistair has a few problems: he's been kidnapped and held for ransom for weeks now, and his captors are getting nervous. Then again, so is he.
Relationships: Alistair/Cullen Rutherford, cullistair - Relationship
Series: Cullistair One-Shots [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604995
Comments: 9
Kudos: 43





	Rescue

Alistair braced for the hit, but the guard’s punch to his gut left still him gasping for air.

You’d think he’d be used this by now.

Then again, being denied food and water for days at a time tended to leave most people struggling to take a punch, and at least he was still vertical.

Sure, that was only because they had him chained at the wrists and hanging from the ceiling, but still. At least the chains on his feet were slack. His feet were actually touching the floor today, and so far, they were holding his weight. He tried not to be too hard on himself.

And Genlock hit the hardest, so he was doing pretty well, all things considered.

As he coughed, Hurlock commented, “Pathetic.”

Genlock laughed. He was always laughing, the little asshole.

(Those weren’t their real names, of course. They hadn’t bothered introducing themselves when they’d interrupted his evening ride by pretending to have been wounded by bandits — and Maker, he was not looking forward to the lectures and _I told you so_ s from Leliana and Cullen for being naive and going out alone once he got out of here — so he’d had to give them names himself. Tall guard was Hurlock. Short one was Genlock. Not the most creative, but hey, he’d been kidnapped and held for ransom for weeks now. He wasn’t at his best.)

“No wonder they haven’t paid his ransom yet,” said Genlock.

Alistair grinned. “Maybe your letter got lost in the mail.”

The next punch came from the right and hit him in the temple hard enough to make him see stars. He tasted blood.

“Mixing it up today, huh?” he said, focusing on the middle of the three Genlocks he was currently seeing. “Usually you start with the —”

Genlock hit him with the left hook this time — or was it the right hook? It came from his left, so Genlock’s right? The internal argument was the only thing keeping him from losing consciousness, so he pictured Genlock’s stance in his mind’s eye and decided that yes, it was the right hook that hit him in the left ear and left it ringing.

Hah. Left.

“… not like you very much,” Hurlock was saying. “Can’t say I blame them.”

“I’m a bastard who was raised in a barn and a monastery.” Alistair was very proud of himself for forming and finishing a whole coherent sentence. “‘Course the nobility hate me. Next time try the Queen of Antiva. Though you have to pay the ransom, and the Crows always get paid.”

And he spat his mouthful of blood into Genlock’s face.

It was barely more than a puff of red air, as dehydrated as he was, but Genlock reached for his daggers.

A voice from outside his cell commanded, “Stop.”

Ah, Fuckface. Alistair had been wondering when she’d show up.

“Take a break,” Fuckface snapped. “Both of you.”

Hurlock and Genlock did, leaving Alistair alone with Fuckface.

(Also not her real name, and not nearly as clever as Hurlock and Genlock, but some people just really looked like a certain name. And she was definitely a Fuckface.)

She walked into his cell with a cup and a bowl — bread and some gruel and _thank the Maker_ , water. Alistair couldn’t control the noise his stomach made.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long,” she said gently, and oh, did he hate her and her Good Warden to Hurlock and Genlock’s Bad Wardens.

She placed both bowl and cup on the floor in front of him, and then she retreated, locking the cell door behind her. (There was a reason they’d eventually chained his feet, too.) When she was safely out of his reach, she pulled a lever, which released his chains enough so he could sit and eat and drink.

He didn’t, of course. He never did when they were watching. He might be in their cage, but he wasn’t an animal for them to gawk at.

Also, he felt like he might vomit, and he definitely wouldn’t let them see that.

So he sat down with his legs crossed, placed his hands on his knees, and closed his eyes. He focused on his breathing, the only thing that kept him grounded these days, and waited for her to talk or leave.

Oh, who was he kidding? Talk. She always talked. That was part of her job as the Good Warden.

“You’ve been gone almost a month.”

He waited, breathing deeply. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.

“Why they haven’t sent the ransom yet?”

In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.

“I said —”

“Oh, was that a question for me?” Alistair kept his eyes closed. “I thought maybe you were thinking out loud. How should I know?”

“Do you not know how your advisers would respond? And what about those who care for you? Surely someone cares enough about you to pay for your return, yes?”

He bit his tongue hard to keep it from going rogue. _This_ was why he’d dubbed her Fuckface.

“Perhaps we miscalculated. Maybe the Teyrna of Gwaren would have been a better choice.”

“Maybe she would have,” he said, careful to keep his voice neutral. “After all, I’m a bastard without an heir. She’s remarried and popped out three now.”

 _More people to miss her_ , that nasty voice whispered in the back of his mind. _More people to care._

“I had thought you more beloved than this.”

 _So did I_ , said the voice.

“Or perhaps your dashing commander is raising another army.”

A lump formed in his throat, and his eyes stung.

In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.

“You should pray he doesn’t,” Fuckface said. “The others disagree, but if I’m to be hanged for treason, I’d rather like to have earned it. We can’t stand against an army, but can an army stand to watch as its king’s throat is slit, bastard blood gushing forth to water the Blighted ground of his nation?”

“Such poetry, my dear,” Alistair said through gritted teeth. “You should have been a bard.”

“Then again, I had thought you more beloved than you appear to be.”

In, two, three, out, two —

“Perhaps the blood of that army’s commander would be more fitting. And I am such a very good shot.”

Alistair clenched his hands, grasping his knees in an iron grip.

“Hmm,” said Fuckface, as though she was pondering what to eat for lunch. “I shall have to think on that.”

After an Age of further silence, her steps retreated.

Alistair opened his eyes, and only when he knew he was alone did he let out a quiet sob.

He ate and drank as slowly as he could manage and tried not to imagine Cullen bleeding out from an arrow in his neck.

* * *

Alistair had fallen into a fitful sleep — rather redundant, as all his sleep was fitful these days, not least because of the way his wrists and ankles were shackled to the wall — filled with horrifying images that Fuckface had so carefully placed there.

Cullen, wide-eyed, grasping at the arrow in his neck and gasping for air as he fell from his horse at the head of the army he’d brought to save him while Alistair could only watch helplessly from the battlements.

Or worse, the terror and shock on Cullen’s face, the anguish in his voice when he screamed “No!” as a white-hot pain sliced across Alistair’s neck and his blood poured down his chest.

And then he was falling, falling, watching Cullen’s horror and grief as the ground flew upward to meet him —

Alistair woke with a gasp. The chains jangled when he wiped at his cheeks; his hands came back wet.

He took a minute or so to untangle himself from the chains, which had wrapped themselves around him while he slept. The task gave his mind something to focus on other than his still-pounding heart.

Once he was finished, he sat with his back against the wall and willed himself to calm. It was dark now except for a torch outside his cell that lit up the rest of the somewhat large dungeon.

But as his heartbeat slowed, his ears picked up something else.

It wasn’t uncommon for the ones upstairs to get into fights with each other. Though he’d only ever seen Fuckface, Genlock, and Hurlock, he knew there was at least one more of them he’d never seen — their leader, whom he’d dubbed Archie — and figured they had a group of at least a dozen or so. He hadn’t left his cell since he’d woken in shackles twenty-seven days ago, but he could hear them arguing and getting drunk and starting fights at least one floor up … wherever they were. Some abandoned fortress in Ferelden somewhere, probably.

But these sounds were different — angrier. More violent. Yelling and swearing, yes, but also weapons hitting shields.

Genlock and Hurlock had heard it, too; they stood from their game of not-Wicked Grace with their weapons drawn.

Alistair hardly dared to let himself hope, but in any case, his best course of action was to stay silent in the darkness of his cell.

Banging down the hall, and Genlock ran toward it. Hurlock stayed where he was.

“Drop ‘em or lose an eye,” said a gruff, gravelly familiar voice. “Your choice, but make it quick. Bianca’s twitchy.”

“Where is he?” a different voice snapped, and Alistair nearly wept with joy.

 _Cullen_.

“So’s he,” said Varric. “We’ve retaken a lot of these old fortresses, but the prince is always in another castle. His renowned patience is running thin.”

Alistair covered his mouth to hold in a hysterical giggle before realizing he could actually be useful right now.

Been a while, that.

“I’d listen, Hurlock,” he said loudly. “They mean business.”

Hurlock turned at his voice — Maker, Alistair was glad these two were idiots — and an instant later, a crossbow bolt hit him in the shoulder, knocking him backward into the cell behind him.

“Alistair?” Cullen shouted, his tone as tight and ready to snap as Bianca’s string.

A clang, Genlock likely taking a shield to the face, followed by the sound of boots.

Then Cullen skidded into view, sword and shield and armor covered in smears of blood.

“Alistair!” he cried.

Before Varric could finish yelling, “Curly, keys?” Cullen lifted a leg and kicked the door, right at the lock.

It crumpled beneath Cullen’s foot — huh, maybe that was why they always kept Alistair chained up — and it swung open, bouncing back against the wall as Cullen rushed in.

Cullen fell to his knees, dropping his sword and shield unceremoniously, and pulled Alistair into his arms. “Thank the Maker.”

Alistair collapsed into them, sobbing. “You came.”

“I’m sorry I took so long.” Cullen pulled away, his eyes roaming up and down Alistair’s face. “Maker’s breath, what did they do to you?”

Alistair gasped involuntarily and gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Oh, you know. The usual. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Behind Cullen, Varric dragged an unconscious Genlock into the cell with Hurlock and slammed the door. “Good to see you, Charming. I’m going to check out the rest of this maze of a dungeon.”

Alistair was pretty sure no one else was down the hall across from his cell, but there was no harm in Varric checking, either.

Cullen ignored Varric entirely. “You’re skin and bones. When was the last time you ate?”

“Yesterday.” But, blood spatter and sweat aside, dark circles under his eyes and sunken cheeks told Alistair that Cullen hadn’t been enjoying himself, either. “When was the last time you slept, sweetheart?”

“Now that I know you’re safe, I will sleep soundly for the first time since you went missing.” And then he pressed his lips to Alistair’s in a desperate, fervid kiss.

Which didn’t actually answer the question, but Alistair was so relieved and happy that he wasn’t going to push it now.

A movement over Cullen’s shoulder caught his eye, and Alistair broke the kiss in time to see Fuckface nock an arrow.

“No!” he yelled, his nightmares still fresh in his mind.

He wouldn’t let her harm him. He _wouldn_ _’t_.

So he shoved Cullen to the side, following him down and landing on his chest with an _oof_. Cullen, being Cullen, immediately rolled them both over, using his own — admittedly, armored — body to shield Alistair.

But it didn’t matter. The arrow hit the wall behind them, and under Cullen’s arm Alistair saw an arrow strike Fuckface in the neck, another sprout from the back of her shoulder, and two knives slice across her neck.

He watched, with more than a little satisfaction, her expression of utter shock flicker to nothing as she fell forward and hit the floor with a sickening thump.

Her absence revealed Zevran, who quickly crouched to ensure she was dead. Leliana and Varric appeared at the door from the direction of the exit and the hallway across from Alistair’s cell, respectively.

“Andraste’s ass, Curly,” said Varric, returning Bianca to his back. “I know you’re happy to see him, but you can’t keep it in your pants until we get out of here? I was gone for five minutes!”

Cullen sighed. “I was _not_ —”

He was interrupted by Leliana, who practically shoved him off of Alistair, seizing his wrists and making quick work of the shackles before setting to pick the ones on his ankles.

Alistair used his newfound freedom to reach for and wrap his arms around Cullen, who had just finished sheathing his sword and setting his shield on his back. “You’re all right?”

“Am _I_ all right?” Cullen asked, indignant. “You’re the one who —”

Alistair turned around and snatched the arrow that had narrowly missed them both. The tip was covered in a bright green, viscous substance that Alistair recognized as a potent poison.

Snapping the arrow in two and tossing the pieces aside, he glared at her body and hissed, “Fuckface.”

He didn’t even know which of them she’d been aiming for. Maybe she didn’t care one way or another.

She’d more than earned his name for her, and he was glad she was dead. He only wished he’d been the one to kill her.

“Can you stand?” Leliana didn’t leave time for him to answer the question and immediately began to pull him to his feet.

He made it all the way up.

And immediately fell against Cullen as his legs gave out. Though to be fair, that wasn’t exactly a bad thing.

“Let me help you, love,” Cullen said, so gently that Alistair’s vision began to blur.

He nodded and leaned into him. He barely felt Cullen sweep him into his arms and hardly noticed when they left the cell that had been his only world for weeks.

And only now that he was safe did everything he’d been through seem to hit him all at once. Pain and exhaustion threatened to drag him under.

He did notice lots of people about, and he might have been embarrassed if he wasn’t so Maker-damned _tired_.

“You brought an army?”

Cullen clutched him tighter. “Not quite. Leliana thought it more prudent to attack with a small force at night.”

Alistair chuckled. “Are you mad?”

“I’m pleased and relieved you are safe.” Cullen kissed his forehead. “I was so worried.”

“Did you find Archie?” he murmured into Cullen’s neck.

“Who?” asked Leliana from … somewhere.

“Archie … the leader.”

Zevran’s sultry laugh sounded from another direction. “The leader I killed myself, and he was Orlesian. Definitely not named Archie.” He pronounced the name like Alistair did, sounding odd and out of place without his Antivan _r_.

Odd enough that Alistair lifted his head from Cullen’s shoulder — they were outside now, and he gulped in the fresh Fereldan air — and said, “Archie was just what I called him.”

“Why Archie?” Varric asked.

Cullen’s comforting scent had Alistair letting his head fall onto his shoulder again.

“Short for Archdemon,” he sleepily explained. “Leading Hurlock and Genlock and Fuckface.”

The others’ responses faded into the background, but Cullen huffed out a breathy laugh.

“Rest, love,” Cullen whispered. “You’re safe now, and we’re going home.”

That was an order Alistair was glad to follow, and he allowed rhythm of Cullen’s stride and his comforting warmth to pull him fully into the Fade.


End file.
